Father's belt hangs on the wall: a remembrance. I recall its pain when wielded for some small infraction while he was in his cups.

That changed one day. I was fourteen, and large for my age. My father started to strike me with the belt. I pushed him away; he stumbled and fell, and I gave him a harsh look. His face turned chalk white in fear.

He went about the house emptying all his bottles of hard drink. He was a changed man, and loved me fiercely until his passing.

As I shall love him until mine.

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